


Syzygy Excerpts

by marshmallowsweetheart, WoozleBucket



Series: Hookerverse [2]
Category: Sugar Pine 7 RPF
Genre: (at the beginning), M/M, it'll be in the authors notes if things get graphic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-02-01 06:50:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12699615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marshmallowsweetheart/pseuds/marshmallowsweetheart, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoozleBucket/pseuds/WoozleBucket
Summary: A series of oneshots set in Syzygy canon. Ranges from deleted scenes to backstories to alternative perspectives of moments in the fic.





	1. Steven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The News Dad and the Other Steve are here! So rejoice! -W

Phil and Steve are the ones behind the counter, and they can hear the way that this kid's voice cracks, and they can see the way his hands are shaking. It's obvious that he's neither done this before, nor really wants to be there. Worse than that, he's alone, and usually, they'd just tell someone like this to fuck off, but something about the desperate look in his eyes and gawky way he moves makes them hesitate. It’s like he’s not used to the length of his own limbs, the kind of gawkiness that only comes from teenagers who’ve grown faster than they adapted.

They share a look, and Phil sighs. He jerks his head towards the kid--because there’s no way he’s older than fifteen or sixteen--before turning around and reaching beneath the table for his pistol. He doesn’t show it yet. 

"Why are you doing this?" Phil asks, and it's flat, straight to the point. The kid seems to take a step back, pauses for a moment like he hadn’t expected the question. They’re positive he hasn’t expected them to be the ones calling the shots. They’re not sure he expected anything at all, given how shaken up he looks even before anything’s even happened. 

"Why--why do you want to know?" he asks, his voice nasally and shaking, and Phil sighs and sets his gun on the counter, resting his hand on the trigger. He doesn't aim it yet, just lets whoever this is know it's there, and the kid's grip seems to tighten even as his hands shake. "My mom has--she's in the hospital, and my dad--he won't--" 

He seems to get more unstable with every word, and Steve just shares another look with Phil as the kid stutters. God, he can't say no when Steve looks at him like that. Especially not about a kid. They can't do nothing, so he sighs, reaches out, and pulls the pistol easily from the kid's hands. 

They bring him into the back of the store, find out that his name is Steven.

“You’re Suptic,” Phil says, pointing at him, and Steve nods approvingly while Suptic looks between them, looking like he can't quite believe this is happening.

***

They don't directly fund him, but they teach him a few things, and he doesn’t do stick-ups but he starts bringing in money. They give him a couple targets and learn that he's really, really good at talking himself out of situations, of leveling himself when things get violent and de-escalating the situation, and that he’s good at getting information from places they’d thought were dry. He seems to know everyone from every bar, on every shady street corner. 

(They pretty much adopt him, once they figure out that he doesn't really have a home to go back to. He insists he's independent, and they suppose for the most part he is. But he's still a _child_ , who gets sick and fucks up and quite obviously has no one else left in the world, and they can't just leave him to the wolves. 

Sometimes he shows up completely sober but reeking of alcohol. His clothes smell like smoke, always, and the bruises usually look like fists, or fingers, and worst of all they can sometimes see the design of some kind of ring. It's obvious that he’s being abused, and even more obvious that he doesn’t want to talk about it. They do what they can, and they never ask.) 

He starts earning money and not just bringing it in, and every cent goes to the mother he told them about. 

_He starts to get reckless after a year or so. Starts to seek out more and more, seems unstable at absolute best. When he nearly gets himself killed just for a couple extra thousand, Steve takes him aside and learns that there's only three more months until his mother dies and that he hasn't accepted yet that there isn't anything he can do._

When Suptic shows up one day, shaking and sobbing, neither of them ask. They know, and they don’t make him talk about it or go out on a job. Just lets him stay, and lets him seek them out late at night when he eventually does. When Suptic shows up the next day, still shaking, with a black eye and a bottomless anger in his eyes, he goes right to work and somehow ends up in the Back Room. 

He's just a kid, Steve says, when he calls because Phil is out of town making a deal, and the only reason Suptic’s still back there is because if he goes in to stop him now they lose face in the middle of an interrogation. And when he comes out of the Back Room to grab a knife because the ones in there aren't doing enough, Steve tries to take him aside. I'm fine, Suptic says. And then he goes back into the Room and comes out hours later with splattered glasses and a notebook full of information Steve hadn’t been able to pry out. The next day, the cold anger in his eyes is replaced with blank nothing, and that’s more worrying than before. 

They don't see anything in his eyes for a long, long time. He changes. He doesn't let anyone in or anything by him, and he becomes the best interrogator they have. Becomes the best at getting any kind of information, from anyone, regardless of who or how or what. At 16, he's easily the most terrifying with a knife, despite and maybe even because of how young he is. 

_The people in the Room don't expect a fucking kid to come in with a dumb anime face mask on and a knife in hand. And that's all he needs. Because he's spent enough time with certain people to know that words hurt more than anything. Physical pain is something extra, something that can distract from what he wants._

_Suptic lets his voice crack when he lays out the rules, knows that the contrast in his look and his actions makes it even more chilling when he begins to drag the knife across skin. He isn’t even aiming to cause pain, doesn’t let it draw more blood than necessary, because he doesn’t want to distract him. He just wants to make it painfully aware that he is not the kind of person that can be predicted, and that’s usually more terrifying than any torture trick he could pull out of his sleeve._

_"Fuck!" Sweanie swears, and Suptic rolls his eyes._

_"You fuck your mom with that mouth?" he asks in all his nasally pubescent glory, frowning at a trail of blood that had tracked across his finger before wiping it on his jeans like the teenager he is. "Gross."_

Phil and Steve watch for a while, one night when he seems particularly detached. Watch how this child, not even old enough to drive after nine, effortlessly takes apart a mob boss who's been in place for years. 

Suptic goes home that night in a different shirt, because the one he’d worn when he came in after school was too bloodstained to just walk around in. He comes in the next day with another black eye and a wicked bruise on his temple. He just shoots them a look, rolls up his sleeves, grabs an apron this time (helpfully with 'oppai' written in marker on the front), and heads to the Back Room. 

He stays in the Back Room, when he’s not sitting in Inventory doing the homework that Phil and Steve force him to follow through on. They force him to go to school, and to graduate, because this kid is alone but he's smarter than anyone they've ever seen. They sit in the back of the stadium as Steven walks the line, and they can see him looking for someone towards the front. Someone who isn't there, is at a motel fucking another hooker, paying off someone else. 

The principal says "Steven Suptic" into the microphone, and Phil yells as loud as he can. It's a little strange, for a crime lord to be acting like a soccer dad, but they can see the way that Steven lights up even from hundreds of feet away and they decide that it's worth it. They take him out to dinner, and then back to base, and they don't wake him up when he falls asleep on a couch there. They don't make him go home, and it occurs to them--like it does every night--that maybe the place he goes back to isn't the place he considers home. 

He does go "home" in the morning, if only to get a change of clothes, and comes back later that night with no glasses, a ripped shirt, and what looks like a broken nose. And he just grabs his spare pair of glasses, the kind he wasn’t told he needed until he was 17 and Phil kept seeing him squint, goes to the Back Room with no words other than a brief hi.

_When they hire Reina, she latches onto him faster than they ever could. They're close enough in age that it works, and Reina seems to bring out something in Suptic that they never could. Something that makes him seem more like a kid, and less like someone who had to grow up too fast in the debris of a broken household. She calls him Steven, not Suptic, or Suppy if she must, and to her Steve becomes Zaragoza._

_They weren't even meant to be partners. She had just been brought in, Steven had taken one look at her drawing accurate boobs on his apron, and had tried to sneak past her into Inventory. No such luck. She brought him out on her first job, his first real time doing something outside of the building, and of course Steve was worried, but then Suptic had come back with a dumb grin and a leather jacket from literally nowhere and both of them dusted with soot. Phil and Steve are so surprised to see his smile that they don't say anything, and they notice that things seem to go better, or at least bigger, when they're together._

_Steven's less eager to go into the Back Room each day. He still goes back, because that's his job, not...whatever he and Reina do. But it seems to become something he does out of necessity, something he does and doesn’t mind rather than something he needs to get through._

_One day he staggers out, staring at his shaking, red, red, red hands and doesn't go back for days. Phil and Steve don’t know where to find him, once they’ve found the first corpse he’s left with a cut that looks deep enough to be an accident, but Reina knows. And she finds. And when she comes back with Steven in tow, he looks shaken but not broken. He’s killed for the first time, but he might just be accepting that he isn’t alone trying to deal with it._

When SourceFed dissolves, in their rush to get everyone dark and out of the police spotlight that’s found them, he slips through the cracks. Reina gets to Japan, and by the time they realize that he’s not there with her he’s so far underground that they again don’t know where to find him. It doesn’t take long to realize that, however resourceful he is, however smart he is, they haven’t taught him enough, that they haven’t taught him what he needs, needs, needs to know--how to defend himself, how to aim a gun, how to find work and pickpocket and live without the support of a gang or anywhere to go, how to barter information in a way that makes people care who didn’t before--and now it’s too late. They can’t find him, and they try. 

He’s gone.


	2. First Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fluff you all deserve after so much angst

It’s the night after a big deal and Steven is drunk. Very drunk. Veeeeery druuuuunk, and someone should have taken the champagne from him a _while_ ago.

“I’m, like, really drunk,” he says. His head is leaning on James shoulder because, wow, James is a fucking pillow, like all soft and warm and also very drunk. Cib is….somewhere. Not here. Maybe twenty feet away. But not here.

James laughs, jostling Steven’s head. “Me too, man! Like, whoda funk it?”

They might still be at a bar, maybe. Or they might be at the apartment. Or they might be at James’ apartment. Or they might be at Parker’s house for some reason because, really, who would _want_ to be at Parker’s house? Like, he doesn’t have any alcohol there. Just grape juice and the shitty, cheap coffee that Steven used to drink. And champagne! Something bubbly.

But that doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that James’ laugh is really pretty, just like everything else about him, and he really, really wants to tell him that. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, turning his head so that he’s looking up at him. It’s slurred, because his cheek is still pressed into James’ shoulder, but he decides it’s good enough. James goes red.

“Y-you, too,” James says. He coughs and looks away, ducks his head, and Steven feels like he did something wrong. 

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, sitting up. His head is spinning a little. Or a lot. He’s fiiiiiine. 

“You’re, like, with Cib, right?” James asks, smiling a little. 

James is a fucking idiot. Or he’s just being a...fucking idiot. His idiot.

“ _And you_ , idiot,” Steven says. He leans in closer, hopefully not staring. “Can you keep a secret?”

James, very seriously, nods.

“I really want to kiss you right now.” Cause he does. Usually he doesn’t, and he can’t think of why. But it sounds nice right now. Really nice. Incredibly nice. 

James blinks, and just for a moment his pretty eyes go away. And then they’re back and he smiles wider and Steven’s entire body wants to melt because, wow. 

“Dude, we’re dating,” he says. 

Steven blinks, smiles. “Oh, yeah. _God_ , you’re good. Saw right through my...little game.”

And then he leans forward, and then James leans forward, and then electricity is spreading across his whole body. It’s like kissing Cib all over again, but it’s James, and James has his glass on the counter and his arms around Steven, and Steven has a hand cupped around the back of James’ neck. Maybe. Or maybe they’re just shoving their faces at each other because they’re drunk and don’t know what they’re doing.

Either way, it’s great. 

***

_“What happened last night?” Steven asks when he wakes up to find Cib sprawled across him and James beside him. James only offers a small ‘don’ remember’ before going back to sleep, and he sighs, closing his eyes again and waiting for someone else to wake up._


	3. With Love From: Parker (Late at Night)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking finally. -W

Parker's woken up by a call at some ungodly hour in the morning, and if it's Steven Suptic Jeremy's going to kill him. He doesn't hear who's on the other end of the call, but he does hear--

"Oh my god, Steve! I swear the money’s on the wa-" 

He's going to kill Steven Suptic. 

"Paypal?" Parker asks, sounding nervous, and then suddenly he's sitting bolt upright and getting out of bed. He doesn't turn on the lights, just pulls out his laptop and sits in front of it on the floor, and the urgency in his voice when he speaks next is enough to get Jeremy up, too. 

Andrew groans from his spot between them, the suddenly-cold spots around him waking him, and he sits up blearily. 

"Wha--" 

Parker holds up a finger and Jeremy just shoots him a glance. Andrew huffs and gets out of bed, stretches and heads down to the kitchen. He can tell, after living with a hacker long enough, that this is going to be a long night. 

"Phone?" Parker asks. "Tracker?" There's a muffled 'what?' now that Jeremy's listening for it, and Parker repeats himself. "Does he have a tracker?" 

_"No, he doesn't have a tracker--"_ And Parker holds the phone away for a moment before turning to Jeremy. 

"What information would you need to find someone?" he asks, quietly enough that he can still listen to the conversation. 

"First and last name," Jeremy replies, before thinking for a moment. "If not that, close affiliates. Absolutely last known location." And Parker only nods and goes back to the phone. 

“Do you have a full name?” Parker asks, writing each answer down to remember. Steven, on the other end, says no, but Jeremy can hear him looking through papers, moving through the apartment before he finds something. 

_"Here. I've got an incomplete visa application. Clayton James."_

Jeremy hears visa and groans inwardly. Out of country is so much harder. 

"Last location?" because Parker, for now, is business, and doesn’t let what’s harder or easier matter much because it has to be done regardless.

 _"Some park. Give me a moment."_ Then a muffled, _"James--"_ before the phone goes silent. The call continues, but with no input. 

Jeremy huffs slightly and leans into Parker's side. Parker absently puts an arm around him and yawns. 

"I'm going to kill them," Jeremy mutters. "Fucking idiots." 

"Cib's been missing for two days," Parker replies, tiredly, and it's only because they're currently employed by these people that Jeremy cares. Well, 'cares' is a strong word. But he's obligated to do something about it. 

_"--I don't fucking know! He always called it 'Boys Park' and--" "Oh, wow, thanks. You're a big fucking help--”_ and the line goes silent again. Parker passes the phone to Jeremy and removes his arm, stretches, and puts it back with a soft, tired groan. Jeremy rolls his eyes at the arguing. Children, both of them. 

_"It's Greene Park,"_ Steven eventually says, and Jeremy mouths 'just hang up'. Parker doesn't hang up, he's too nice and doesn't have enough job security, but he does tells Steven that that's all they need and waits as Steven ends the call. 

He puts his phone down, rubs his eyes, and leans back into Jeremy for a moment. 

"I think Andrew made coffee," Jeremy says, his shades on now that the room light is on. 

"In a minute," Parker says, shutting his eyes, and Jeremy doesn't smile but he wraps his arms around him anyway. It’s longer than a minute, but suddenly Parker seems to blink awake, and he shuts his laptop and gets up. 

Downstairs, Andrew is asleep on the couch, face-first, because it's two in the goddamn morning and like hell was he going to make coffee. (The coffee is sitting on the coffee table, and it’s hot, with two packets of splenda and a splash of french vanilla creamer.) 

They let him sleep. Andrew's better as a hired gun, or a getaway driver, and information and tracking is what Jeremy and Parker do. They throw a blanket on him, and Parker sits on the end of the couch he doesn't take up while he sips his coffee and helps Jeremy get into databases he shouldn't have access to. 

***

When Andrew wakes up in the morning, they're still awake and working. Parker has six empty cups in front of him on the table and Jeremy is still working his way through his single can of Monster. 

"Cib got kidnapped," Parker explains as soon as he notices Andrew's disapproving look. "Don't kill us."

"I'll kill you first," Jeremy adds. Andrew gives him a nod, admits it, but when he gets up to shower he takes the blanket that they'd thrown over him and tucks it around Parker's shoulders. 

Parker blinks for a moment, seems to realize he’s been staring at the same page for five minutes and that the coffee isn’t doing anything besides shooting his pulse through the roof, and when he shuts his eyes and leans into Jeremy, Jeremy can tell that he’s falling asleep. He just sighs and grabs the cup out of Parker’s hand before it falls to the floor. 

_By the time Andrew's done with his shower, Jeremy's asleep too, even if it's obvious he hadn't meant to be. But he's got one arm around Parker, who's leaning into his shoulder, and Andrew only smiles and takes the cups away. Jeremy's shades are on his lap and he looks peaceful (for once), and Parker's brow is wrinkled in that way that means that he's having another one of his "Things" and their computers are sitting, abandoned, on the table. Andrew only glances at them as he gets the cups, and the screens are both dark._

_It only takes a day or so to get the information Steven and James need, and once they have it they ask for Andrew as a getaway driver._

_"He's not going in," Jeremy says when they call, because he did his research and he doesn't want to mess with Fake Chop._

_"No, just driving," James says on the other end, and Jeremy nods to himself before agreeing._


	4. Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James is a big shot now, huh?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a joke. Hah!- W
> 
> TWs: blood, glanced-over suicidal thoughts

James is in a leather jacket, which means that the stain of red underneath it isn’t entirely hidden but it’s concealed enough that it's missed in the heyday of getting out of there once the deal goes wrong. They’re riding back, just sort of decompressing once they lose their tail, and James is slowly looking more and more run down. He's quiet, and they blame it on the adrenaline loss until he leans forward and Steven sees a large, dark red stain on the back of the seat.

And he’s still not worrying about it. Like it isn’t hurting him. Like he hasn’t noticed it. 

"James, stop," Steven says suddenly, with the kind of urgency in his voice that stops everything else. "Unzip your jacket." And James does, to see--

"Oh," he says, looking at the red stain taking up most of his chest, and Steven can see the realization in his eyes as Cib turns around from the front seat and gasps. Now that he's noticed it, the pain apparently hits.

“Oh,” James repeats, his voice shaking. “ _Oh._ ”

And, as he does every time he’s nervous or scared, he smiles. And it looks pained. 

“I’m gonna die,” he says. And he looks as casual as one can about it.

Steven turns to Andrew, who's already speeding up, and says _"Gun it"_ in the cold, emotionless tone that means he's put his emotions away for now.

"You're not gonna die," he says, turning back to James. "I'll fire you." And he reaches out to pull James' jacket off and has to stop for a moment, shut his eyes and take a deep breath and squeeze his hands into fists for a moment to stop them from shaking. And then he moves on, putting pressure on it, lying James down in the backseat the best he can as Cib watches from the front seat. He tells him to stay there because too many hands in not enough room will only make things harder, but there's so, so much blood and for a moment he wants Cib right beside him.

At first James resists, says something like _"I've had worse"_ or _"It's my time already"_. He looks pretty at peace, relatively speaking. 

"I'm done, man," he says, his voice beginning to slur. "Just give it up, 'ready."

"Yeah, no," Steven says, staring at his blood-soaked hands. "I'll fire you first."

"Won't be a man to fire if I die," James says. 

"Exactly," Steven mutters. James swallows, glances up at Cib, and then continues staring at the ceiling.

They get back, and Cib or Andrew or someone must have called Reina already and Steven must have missed it with his frantic focus on James. Reina shoots him a small look of concern, just a fraction of a second of reassurance before she's focused on James, too, and Cib is pulling him away, pulling him close. It takes a moment to realize he's shaking, not just his hands but the rest of him, his skin and clothes both stained red.

He rests his head on Cib’s shoulder and takes in a shaky breath, his eyes closed, desperately trying to get himself under control. This isn’t what they need, this isn’t what he needs. He needs to be calm, collected, or he’ll be useless. He’ll be useless and then James will die and it’s all his fault even though it wasn’t and, fuck, he’s still shaking and—

“He’ll be fine,” Cib breathes in his ear. 

“He’d better,” Steven answers, layering his work voice over his terrified one and using Cib’s grip to center himself again.

He pulls away after a few moments, knows that if he lets himself have more than that it'll all be too much. And then he pulls away and sees the red stains where he'd touched Cib, and suddenly that same feeling of being out of control comes back ten times stronger. 

"I'm going to--wash this off," he says, choking on his words in the middle, and Cib nods, squeezes his shoulder one more time, and before Steven leaves he takes Cib's hand and does the same, because Cib doesn't get shaken up easily but this is one of the things that will do it. Something seems to stabilize in Cib’s stance, just a bit, and Steven wishes he felt the same way.

Sometime during his shower, Cib comes in to throw away the bloody clothes and replaces them with something soft and clean, and it hurts to realize that the hoodie is one of James'.

It’s bigger than he remembers, and it actually reaches his fingertips when he puts it on. It’s warm and he hates it. 

After briefly checking in on the group in the kitchen, silent and unassuming, he forces himself to leave. James just lies there calmly on the table, completely still and absolutely unconscious, and he doesn’t like it. He takes a moment, sits on the edge of his bed, his fists clenched, and stares at the wall, waiting.

Eventually, when he’s sure he can handle it, he goes to find Cib in the living room and sits next to him. He leans on Steven’s shoulder, and it doesn’t make things better, but at least he's not alone.

He doesn't fall asleep there. He can’t. But Cib does, and Steven puts his arm around him, knowing neither of them will be getting much rest in the next few days and letting Cib get all he needs.

He can hear James cry out only once, and it makes his heart break. Cib just shifts next to him, whimpers slightly, and Steven subconsciously tightens his grip. 

After that, it's almost completely silent other than the ticking of the clock and Cib's breathing next to him. And Steven wants sound, he wants something to drown out everything in his head. He knows that he'll be in work mode until James is confirmed okay, and maybe afterwards, but his thoughts are filling up the empty space his emotions left behind. They're loud, panicked, annoying, and _he doesn't have time for them right now_.

 _Of course you have time_ , some tiny little voice in the back of his head says, _all you're doing is waiting here for what's going to be hours_ , but he shoves it away because he can't deal with this alone and Cib is asleep and Reina and James are--

 _Don't think about that_ , he tells himself, and he takes a deep breath, focuses on the way that Cib’s head feels on his shoulder and keeps focusing until everything else dies down and he can feel something besides panic again. This is how he needs to be. He lowers Cib into a comfortable position on the couch, gets out his laptop and starts writing a report for the records he keeps. He can analyze anything and everything that had gone wrong, and if he’s analyzing how it went wrong he’s not focusing on what happened after.

He doesn't know how long it is, throwing himself into documents and deals and finances, but suddenly Reina's hand is on his shoulder. He jumps, badly, and when he looks around Cib is already at the door looking back at Steven with the same concern on his face that's written on Reina's. It looks like she’s been trying to get his attention for at least a minute or so.

"He's done," she says. “Awake, but probably not for much longer--”

"Will he be okay?" Steven interrupts, and Reina smiles slightly with tired, worried eyes. 

"With some rest," she says, and Steven is hugging her before he knows what he's doing. 

"Thank you," he whispers, more relieved and grateful for her than he could ever explain or deal with right now, and she hugs back with a whispered _"always"_ before letting him go so that he can cross into the kitchen. 

James is trying to get up as soon as Steven walks in, groggily saying, "Hey, I'll be out in a minute."

He looks pained. Really pained. And he has an already-bloody bandage across his bare chest and, God. Steven can already feel himself wanting to slip back into work mode, to inspect him and move on to the next thing so that he doesn’t have to focus on the fact that he’s hurt. James is only a distraction from his work, he can--

James falls back onto the table with a loud grunt and a wince and Steven snaps out of it, lets himself feel just enough, moves towards the table and pulls a chair over. 

James looks up at them. 

"You look like shit, dude," he says weakly, and it surprises Steven enough that he laughs a little. 

"Look who's talking," he replies, putting his hand on James' and squeezing slightly. James just grimaces, wincing when he tries to move, and Cib’s hand appears on his shoulder, holding him down.

"Quit it, idiot," Cib says, looking by far the most fragile, and suddenly Steven's breath catches because both of his boys are here and safe but at the same time they're both so hurt. It’s a weird mixture of relief and concern, and he pushes it away. Again.

"I told you, I'm fine," James huffs, again trying to get up, but Cib reaches over and keeps him down. 

"'You're fine', he says," Cib says, scoffing, and he has something weird in his voice. It reminds Steven of Idyllwild and when he would try and get up and move around after a few days. Like he's trying to keep up some sort of weird facade, like how Steven has his 'work face' and James has his 'I don't care at all' face. 

"Yeah, I'm fi--"

"You were _shot_ ," Steven says, interrupting him. James opens his mouth to say something, winces, and closes it again. Steven’s entire body hurts, it hurts so bad, and his heart is killing him, and he’s reminded of why he’d close himself off in the first place. He’s reminded of something Jeremy told him, _if this is being alive and human, I don’t want it_ , and, for a long moment, he agrees.

He squeezes his eyes shut, takes in a deep breath, and opens them again. He stares at the wall, his hand still on James’, and thinks for a moment. He has to figure out what happened, what went wrong, why something happened to James and not him or Cib. For the reports, and for his own peace of mind. He’d rather it have been him, he can deal with that. He can control that, to some extent.

“Yeah,” James agrees. “and I’m fine!”

“You’re bleeding all over our kitchen table, you can’t sit up, and you sound like you’re about to cry,” Steven distractedly says. “So, yeah, you’re fine.”

“You’re in work mode,” James says, more of a statement than a question, and being called out is abrupt enough that it pulls him from ‘work mode’ for a moment. He opens his mouth to speak, shuts it again and blinks back the burning in his eyes, switches back to ‘work mode’. Maybe he is in ‘work mode’. Maybe he needs to be. 

“Someone has to be,” he says almost too quickly, cold and hard as steel, and he’s right. Cib, across the table, looks more and more like he’s about to cry, and James has literally been shot. James doesn’t look happy with that, but given that James is laid out on the kitchen table with a bullet wound Steven couldn’t really care less. 

And then the moment of--well, anger, he guesses, because work mode isn’t perfect, it’s not bulletproof--passes, and a wave of exhaustion hits him like a truck. He sighs, ignores it, and idly watches Cib lean his forehead against James’ arm and watches his shoulders shake.

***

Over the next week, Steven just gets colder and colder. Harder. He isolates himself more, justifying it because he's doing what needs doing and he's the only one who can. James is hurt, and needs Cib to help him. Cib needs to see that James is okay. But Steven is neither injured nor insecure, and therefore he can handle it.

_(He doesn't notice the same things the boys notice. How his replies are more and more clipped off, how he always seems to have a headache. How he looks paler, and tired, and there's a sort of lingering panic in his eyes. How his jaw is always tense and he's always worried. And, of course, being his boys, they can't just let that slide under the radar. Steven's slid under the radar for far too long. He’s an idiot, really, to think that they’re going to tolerate this, and it’s a wonder he even lasted a week without intervention.)_

He doesn't really realize what he's doing. He knows that he's in 'work mode', that he's working because the others can't, that Cib is taking care of James and that James is taking care of Cib, and that he's gotten about two hours of sleep in the past day or two.

He has a pretty good idea of what'll happen if he lets his emotions get ahead of him. It’s happened before, mostly in his first year or so at SourceFed. He'll lose progress, things will immediately go downhill, and then he'll end up alone in the universe because Cib and James would be gone if the business went under because he's still pretty sure that he's just an extra thing even though they've been together for over two months now and-- 

And he knows that’s not really true. The emotional part of him believes they love him, and God knows that took plenty of evidence and convincing. But it’s been two days, maybe three, and Steven’s barely slept. Barely eaten. Barely talked to anyone. And the emotional part of him that has something like faith is turned off. James hasn’t relaxed once the entire week, and he’s getting better but not as quickly as Steven wants him to. Not as quickly as he could, if he’d just let himself rest.

 _Ironic that you’re saying that_ , the little annoying voice in the back of his mind says, but Steven isn’t the one recovering from a bullet wound and therefore cuts himself no slack.

Steven looks up as James winces. 

"James, you shouldn't--" And he's cut off by James' sigh. 

"Steven, I'm fine--" 

"You got shot! You're not fine!" Maybe it’s the fact that they’ve been having this argument for days, or the fact that he’s still not fine after days, but first time since, Steven's voice shakes. 

There’s a pregnant pause, Steven radiating defiance and concern, before James looks at him like he knew that this was coming. He walks over, refusing Steven's help when it's offered and instead sits on the couch next to Steven and moves the laptop to the coffee table. Steven tries to ignore the pang of panic when it's out of his lap, because there's so much that he still needs to do but then suddenly he's being pulled close to James. Well, close enough, because he’s still got a literal actual bullet wound in his chest that he certainly hasn’t been helping to heal. Steven sighs, tries to pull away.

“James--” 

"I'm not fine. But I'm alive and I'm recovering and I'm not going anywhere," James huffs, with an intensity in his voice that suddenly freezes Steven to the spot.

"You're not fine," he eventually says. He tries to will his voice to get back under control, but it won't and it's shaking and this wouldn't be happening _if he was working_.

"No," James says, his voice quiet but with that intensity that is keeping Steven from pulling loose and grabbing his laptop back.

"Okay," Steven continues, and he hates how choked-up he sounds. He clears his throat. He's not going to cry, Jesus. He tries to reach for his laptop, saying, "Now that that's established--"

"No," James repeats. He pulls him closer and Steven tries to pull away. This has to hurt, unless he’s on some very good painkillers. He could be working, should be working, has to be working. But James doesn’t let go, doesn’t miss the fact that Steven is still wearing James’ sweater because it’s still warm, and after a moment he sighs. “Stop it, dude,” he says, and Steven can’t pretend he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

There’s a long pause, and Steven’s not sure when he started shaking. He can’t deal with this. He can’t. They need him to not break down.

"You're not fine," he repeats for the third time, barely a whisper, and it sounds stupid just saying the same thing, but he can’t think of anything else to say. Nothing else matters. His voice is wavering badly and he chokes on 'fine', but James only pulls him closer. He can feel the bandage scratch against his chest, even through James' shirt, and suddenly he just wants to wrap his arms around James in return. But he can't. Because James is hurt. James isn't okay. James almost died, and Steven had almost let him, had been covered in his blood to the point that he'd thrown the clothes away and spent an hour just scrubbing it away.

"I should be--" he starts, ready to continue with anything, anything-- _I should be working, I should be stronger, I should be helping you_ , but James cuts him off. 

"Dealing with this," he says to finish Steven's sentence. "You should be dealing with this. Because you're not fine either, dude." 

James isn't okay and he's hurt still and Steven's not so he’s fine. He's fine. He's fine. 

"I am fine!" he says, louder than he means, pulling away so quickly that James can’t stop him. "I’m not injured, I’m not--look at me! Fine and fucking dandy!"

“Why do you keep--” James says, not loud but definitely not as gently as before. He doesn’t let go to Steven entirely, doesn’t give him any opportunity to get out of here and fix himself.

"Because I have to," Steven interrupts, holding James’ gaze for a moment before whatever burst of resolve he’d had fades away. It turns into exhaustion, physical, emotional. They’re not distinguishable. "I have to be fine." Even to himself, it sounds so defeated. So resigned. So desperate. 

"No, you don't, dude," James replies softly after a pause, and so obviously heartfelt that that does it. That brings out everything he's been trying for days to push away. He doesn’t know if he leans back into James or if James pulls him in, but either way he’s beside him with his head between James’ shoulder and his head and he’s flooded with emotions that he can’t turn off.

Steven has only cried four times in his entire life. When his mom died, when Phil and Zaragoza were the ones to come to his graduation and not his dad or his dad's girlfriend, when he realized that he was an actual hooker for the first time almost two years ago, and when he vented it all out to Reina in Idyllwild. And he's not going to add a fifth, he's not. Because he's fine, he's always fine, he's always--

"James," he quietly says, his voice trembling more than it has in years. "I don't think I'm fine."

And James, ever the gift, doesn't say anything as Steven takes off his glasses and buries his face in James' shoulder as best he can.

"God, this is stupid," he says, not bothering trying to control his voice. He's dangerously close to crying, and he pulls away for a moment to try and center himself, try and at least find some smidge of stability. "You're the one who got shot, and I'm--"

"You held me down and watched me start to die," James says, and Steven's shocked into silence. 

"...What?" He asks, after a pause, and hates that his voice shows everything he feels. 

"You watched me bleed out, covered in my blood, knowing there was nothing you could do. It sucked. It’s allowed to have sucked. Quit beating yourself up for having emotions, man." Only James could make 'man' sound so heartfelt, and Steven is going to cry and no amount of centering can stop him. He wants to argue, wants to say that James does the exact same thing, except that he doesn’t. He may not want to talk about it, and he may hide it, but James doesn’t really pretend that his emotions aren’t there and Steven wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.

He can feel his face start to crumple, and he leans back in and buries it between James' shoulder and his head, and it's hard to breathe, too hard. Everything is too hard. He isn't going to cry. He is not going to cry. He--

"God," Steven breathes. "Stop it."

"I'm not--"

He wrenches his head up and his vision spins slightly, his stomach doing a weird flip-flop. He isn't crying. He isn't.

_(It occurs to James that he's never seen Steven cry before. Granted, Steven hadn't exactly seen him cry either, or Cib, but it also occurs to him that Steven has a great deal of pride, and a history with emotions that all boils down to a need to turn them off. Maybe James isn't doing anything that he should stop. Maybe it's all just too much, so he gently pulls Steven's head back down, rubs his back, and lets him cry. It seems like maybe he needed to.)_

His boyfriend almost died and he was covered in his blood. His other boyfriend is still getting used to having the possibility of death and Steven is all too used to it. He hasn't slept in almost two days, hasn't eaten in probably more, and yeah that’s probably very, very counterproductive. He hasn't cried in almost a year, and he wants to stop, but he can't, won't. 

And James' touch is soft and gentle and perfect and God how did Steven end up with him at all? He's a mess. He's a gross, yucky, emotional, crying mess, and James doesn't care. 

Steven cries.


	5. In Which Phil DeFranco is Not Santa, Really

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Holiday Fluff (considering who we are, at least)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays to my Wonderful Cowriter. From me, to you. Phil is here, too. Woo-hoo! -W

_Dear Santa,_

_I don’t want much this year. Well maybe a dog. I mean we already have Vinny but another one!? It’d be the best Christmas ever!!!!!!_

_Maybe I got too excited there. Maybe._

_So Santa how have you been? I should’ve asked that first but I forgot. Sorry!_

_I’ve been really good. I moved out of Canada and made so many new friends! I’ve got Autumn and Elliott and Jamie and Mimi and Jeremy and Andrew and I guess Parker. And there’s also Vinny, who is the best dog ever and should be treated as such because he is so fucking amazing. Sorry. He’s so freaking amazing. But then I’ve got Steve and James and if I’m going to ask for anything this year, I want them to be happy._

_Steve is almost never happy, which is really sad. Cause he should be happy! And you’re a magical man so you can help make him happy, right? And James pretends that he’s happy but he really isn’t. Well, he’s happy a lot but when he’s sad, he’s really, really, really really sad. And I know that people can be sad and I know that it’s good for people to be sad, but I love them. And I know that you love me and you love everyone, so let them be happy for one day. Please?_

_And maybe a new headband or a new guitar pick cause Vinny ate mine. And maybe some food because we don’t really have the money right now for more than like a bag or two of ramen. Steve and James pretend to like it, but they don’t. So like some McDonald’s would be nice. You don’t have to do that one, though, cause I’m pretty sure that you don’t have a microwave on your sled. Unless you do. Then, please, something that isn’t more goddamn noodles. Sorry. Something that isn’t more goshdarn noodles._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Cibothy Vapington III (Not Clayton cause he’s pretty dead right now)_

-

“I’m not Santa,” Phil says. Joe nods almost condescendingly.

“Sure you’re not,” he says. He looks down at the boxes in their hands and back up at Phil and, definitely condescendingly, nods again. “You’re Phil.”

Phil knows that the recorder is going. He knows that it shouldn’t be going because this little trip is supposed to be a secret and not anything that needs to be recorded. They aren’t on a job. They aren’t on a deal. Joe is just being a little shit again.

Phil sighs and shifts the boxes with a light grunt. “Thank you for that information.”

“You’re welcome!” Joe beams. The recorder crackles as someone else walks into range.

_“Fucking…God, dude,”_ it crackles. Phil trips and almost drops everything. _“You aren’t wearing a dress home. I refuse.”_

_“Not your choice, little man,”_ a different voice says, this one more faded and deeper. _“It’s my body, and–”_

_“Take it off,”_ the first voice says, almost sounding like it’s fading into laughter. Joe almost drops his boxes this time, and the recorder slides off of the top and crashes to the floor, shattering.

“Was that–” Joe starts. He staggers around trying to regain his balance, and Phil would be laughing if he wasn’t still processing that he had just heard a very, very familiar voice. A voice that he can now hear coming closer, actually closer, and he can see a familiar pink hat poking out above the crowd. Joe looks at him and double-takes. “Oh, shit, are you crying?”

“Definitely not,” Phil says. Because for someone to cry over Steven Suptic, they have to be a pretty sad individual. “I think you are.”

Joe blinks away his tears. “Damn.”

_“James’ll love it!”_ the second voice says.

_“No,”_ Suptic says, the exhaustion in his voice audible from the full twenty feet away. _“He’ll laugh at you and then tell you to take it off.”_

_“That’s the point, idiot!”_

Phil doesn’t want to see Suptic. At all. He may love the kid and all, but he also has to finish not being Santa and drop these gifts off at the hospital. And because he might pull Suptic into a hug and never let go. Little shit deserves it. But, for some reason, he and Joe just stand there as Suptic and another guy walk by, hand in hand, the other wearing a dark green dress that Suptic is very clearly trying not to look at. They walk by, Suptic a light red, and they don’t notice Phil and Joe. Which is good. Perfect, even.

“Let’s go,” Phil says, shifting the boxes again. Joe looks at him and nods and doesn’t say anything about how Phil’s eyes are wetter than they were five minutes ago. Allergies, fuck them.

-

_Dear Cibothy,_

_I’m not Santa. My name is Phil and you sent your letter to the wrong address._

_I’m glad to hear that you’re doing fine, though. I always like to hear that. And Vinny does sound like the best dog ever. I’m glad that you have friends after your move, and I’m glad that you have people that you love in your life._

_Maybe McDonald’s can be arranged. I like to help kids like you. My son hated it, but he was also a stick in the mud._

_(And I don’t mind the swearing. My son swore even more.)_

_Yours truly,_

_Phil DeFranco_

_P.S. what’s your favorite color? Asking for a friend._

-

“‘Dear Santa’,” Joe says, holding the paper with one hand and the new recorder with the other. Phil sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “‘I really like blue. And green. And brown. Whatever color Steve’s eyes are, because they’re real pretty. Jameseses, too.’”

Briana sighs. So does James. And Keith. This is the worst business meeting of the year, and that’s saying something.

“He’s just a kid,” Phil says. Joe puts the recorder down on the table and reaches over and puts his hand over Phil’s mouth.

“And then the kid gives his address,” Joe continues. He looks up from the letter to the room. “This isn’t a kid. Ran his address through and, well, it’s in Zaragoza’s building.”

Phil blinks.

“And,” Joe continues. “This ‘Cibothy Vapington’,” he says, smiling and making finger quotes with his eyebrows. It’s kinda disturbing. “is actually a ‘Clayton James’, on Canada’s Most Wanted list for operating one of the biggest drug rings in the Great White North. Two roommates, only one registered. James DeAngelis.”

Briana sits up and lightly elbows Phil, who glares at her and pretends that he doesn’t care. He does care, but it’s just DeAngelis. He can take care of himself.

“Phil,” Joe says. Phil licks his palm and Joe, true to form, leans down and licks him back. “Phil,” he repeats as soon as he’s back upright. “I don’t think that Clayton James is fucking James DeAngelis and Steve Zaragoza.”

“Unless he is,” James says, shuddering. Phil can’t help but agree.

He shakes Joe’s hand off and sighs again. “It could be a coincidence.”

Joe scoffs, “Is anything I do a coincidence?”

_“Yes”_ Phil wants to say. But he can’t. So he just sighs again. “What’s the address?”

-

_Dear Phil,_

_I know exactly who you are. You’re Steve’s dad. He just doesn’t say anything about it because he hates everything and everyone. Except for me and James and Vinny and our landlord that he swears is some guy named Steve, which can’t be right because there’s only one Steve allowed. Ever._

_I know that you have a little crew and I know that you were out with Nation delivering presents to the hospital. I was wearing a green dress and you weren’t. I know exactly what I’m doing._

_Holy shit this sounds creepy. Sorry. James might be helping me now._

_**Hey phil help us with your son** _

_What James said. Because he’s smart and knows exactly what has to happen because he’s so smart. And also because he stole the last letter that I sent and read it and maybe cried on me because he’s perfect and needed a good cry because nobody’s that perfect except for maybe Steve, or maybe that’s just depression._

_**Definitely depression** _

_What James said._

_**Joe should have all the info knowing him the fucking weirdo** _

_What James said again. Cause he’s so smart that he read my mind!_

_Sincerely and lovingly yours,_

_Cib & **James DeAngelis**_

-

Phil knocks on the door and shifts the basket in his hands. It’s heavy, really heavy, chocolate-shouldn’t-be-this-heavy heavy. He can hear yelling on the other side of the door, and it’s definitely Suptic. He can feel the whine through the walls.

_“Fucking, God!”_

Joe’s around the corner with a camera this time (his idea, not Phil’s. Fucking weirdo.), grinning like the idiot he is.

The door practically slams open and Phil is face-to-face with a very annoyed-looking Steven Suptic, who manages a _“What the fuck do you want?”_ before he realizes who’s on the other side.

“Hey,” Phil says. Suptic blinks and his hand is shaking against the doorframe.

“Hey,” he croaks, blinking and pulling his mouth into a tight line, blinking, blinking, blinking again. It’s his crying face, and Phil definitely doesn’t want that. They might not have seen each other in over two years and Phil might be running a completely different crew now with completely different people and Suptic is apparently gay and dating two men, which is probably the best news that Phil’s heard about him in years, and Suptic has never cried in front of him before. And he sure as hell isn’t going to start now.

So Phil drops the basket on the ground, ignoring Joe’s anguished cries of protest, and pulls Suptic into one of his trademarked DeFranco Hugs. Suptic tenses even more than he used to, but he eventually relaxes into it and squeezes back as hard as ever.

Phil can hear Joe dragging the basket away and he can hear DeAngelis and “Cib” moving around in their apartment. He can hear Suptic’s breathing, ragged and short and labored, and he can hear his own almost exactly the same.

“Was it Cib?” Suptic quietly asks, sounding as if he already knows the answer.

“You’re lucky,” Phil says. He looks up and “Cib” and DeAngelis are standing in the doorway watching.

“I know,” Suptic says. Phil can hear him take in a deep breath before he straightens up and spins around, and Phil’s known him long enough to know his “business body” (Joe truly is the worst at names). Suptic marches over to “Cib”, reaches for his collar, and pulls him into a kiss. Phil’s eyes widen despite himself and he turns away, scratching the side of his neck. Joe, true to form, is eating the chocolate like it’s popcorn. It was supposed to be for the boys, but, yeah, it’ll all be gone by the time they’re done doing their…thing. Honestly, a dad shouldn’t have to see his son aggressively kissing his boyfriend. That’s private and, honestly, kind of weird.

Joe catches his look and wiggles his eyebrows, a full bar of chocolate sticking out of his mouth. Phil sighs, smiles despite himself, and he feels himself get turned around by a hand to the shoulder.

DeAngelis looks up at him and pulls his hand away and tucks it close to his side. He tilts his head towards the door where Suptic and “Cib” are standing with their hands on each other’s shoulders, staring at each other.

“Come in?” DeAngelis asks. Phil shakes his head and smiles, and he can hear Joe’s protests yet again.

“Dad, you’re coming in,” Suptic calls. Phil double-takes, smiles, and Suptic practically runs back into his apartment, the back of his neck a bright red.


	6. With Love From: James (How to Talk to Your Crush)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James wants to have a conversation. Steven doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to my wonderful co-author!! I'm not half as creative w/o your input and editing and I overall enjoy your company and all the little things so more than thank you.

Steven still doesn’t acknowledge it when they get home.

Cib is back, Cib is safe, and as much as James wants to say he’d had a single-minded want to get him back, he didn’t, so he can’t. Steven had been on one track, finding Cib and only finding Cib, and James had respected that. But they’d found Cib. And they’re still not talking about it. And he can’t stand it.

Steven’s lying on the couch, looking closer and closer to sleep every second, and as selfish as James knows it is, he can’t go without addressing this anymore. He knows Steven won’t be sleeping until he’s seen Cib again, anyway.   
  
Deep breath in. Long breath out.   
  
“Are we gonna talk about this?” James asks, finally, and Steven jumps slightly, pausing before looking away with that same tightness in his eyes.   
  
“Talk about wh--”   
  
“See, there it is again,” James interrupts, because he’s so  _ tired _ of not getting anywhere. “You always ignore this stuff. You go lock yourself in your room or pretend like it never happened. No, you’re facing this. We’re  _ going _ to talk about this.”   
  
_ And I’m going to find out why I keep making you so upset _ , James adds to himself, because he’s frustrated with the fact that he doesn’t know but he’s so, so, so much more frustrated with the idea that he could be doing something to set Steven back. That he could be scaring him. Again.

Steven snaps at him almost before he can finish the thought.   
  
“I don’t see what there is to talk about. You complimented me and I broke down--” And for a moment, in Steven’s eyes, James can see the same kind of frustration with himself. The exhaustion that hits when you run and run and run and end up right back at square one without ever passing Go, without collecting the $200 you swore you could see right in front of you. 

“It’s not about that, dude!” James says, cutting Steven off because  _ he isn’t mad at him for not being okay yet, Jesus _ \--

And when Steven flinches away he realized that he’s standing up and that he’s yelled. 

Keep breathing. Long inhale, long exhale. The silence seems to hang in the air for a while.    
  
“It’s about _ that, _ ” he says, and from the look on Steven’s face James knows that he knows what he means. He sits down. “It’s about how you have this stuff--like, obviously you have this stuff you don’t like, and then you just don’t ever tell anyone about it. You never tell anyone about anything. You barely talk to me or seem to care when Cib is gone, but then you don’t sleep for three days until he’s okay. I don’t get it. I don’t get  _ you _ \--” And he has a thousand more questions he wants to ask-- _ why don’t you trust us, why won’t you let yourself be touched, why won’t you let anyone get close enough to be able to pick you up when you fall _ \--but Steven cuts him off before he can.    
  
“Why did you look so guilty?” He practically spits, and it catches James off guard. When he meets Steven’s gaze, it’s not fury he sees, but desperation. When he processes the question, he can feel a little desperation of his own.

James had underestimated him.

“What?” He asks, knowing where the conversation is going but hoping that Steven won’t take it there.   
  
“I’m not the only one with secrets,” Steven almost whispers, looking away, and for a moment James is grateful that he lets the question lie. Then the pure stupidity of that relief smacks him in the face, because Steven is right. He isn’t the only one with secrets. And James can’t expect him to share his if James won’t, either--

But no, he realizes, Steven doesn’t care about that. Steven doesn’t care about hypocrites or honor or expectations. Even since James saw him at work back at SourceFed, he’s never had any kind of emotional superiority or moral high-horse. Steven doesn’t care about hypocrites, he cares about deals, and he has for as long as James has known him. 

He’s been approaching this as James. Maybe he needs to approach this as Steven. 

_ Steven  _ has two years that he doesn’t want to talk about.  _ Steven _ never shares anything personal without hesitation and, no doubt, revision. _ Steven _ , at SourceFed, had no assurance of a future, and  _ Steven _ , when SourceFed went down, lost everything.

That’s what Steven wants, then. Not equality. Not a share in kind. Assurance. If James is going to get Steven to share his secrets, Steven wants--no, Steven  _ needs _ \--assurance that he won’t be thrown to the wolves the moment he steps into the forest.    
  
And there’s only one thing James can offer that can promise Steven that.    
  
“How about this,” he says, carefully, and James can see the gears turning in tired eyes when Steven looks back. “I’ll tell you mine.” Steven, knowing his secrets, will have leverage on James, too. “But you have to tell me yours. Sound fair?” 

He lets the question hang for a moment, watches Steven think it over. That same stubbornness is there, and it probably will be for a long, long time. James is about to give up when something in Steven seems to break, and he almost wilts into the couch.    
  
“Okay,” he says, and James blinks in surprise. There’s no emotion in the word, just pure exhaustion, but Steven seems to have found a new determination in his eyes, and holds his gaze when James meets it. 

James smiles.    
  
“Okay,” he says, and starts.


	7. With Love From: James (What Happens When /Someone's/ in a Coma)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some talk of blood so be warned. Nothing too graphic, but it's there.
> 
> Idyllwild, huh? *takes drag from cigarette, gazing distantly into the past* I haven't heard that name in years. -W

They don’t know where to go until a car screeches up to the alley and a voice James recognizes yells _get in_.

It doesn't take much, because at this point it's ‘take help from an unknown source’ or ‘let Steven bleed to death’, and it's well after the car has started moving that he finds the strength to look away from red hands pressed against a bullet wound and to the driver's seat. 

When he does, he must make some sound, because Reina turns for a moment and offers a weak, weak smile.

_(Of course it’s Reina, who raised hell whenever Steven got hurt. Of course, of course, of course she’s here, because James hasn’t ever seen them stay apart for too long. Reina is here, and the pikachu body pillow in the backseat tells him that it’s her and the red staining fills him with both fear and resolve._

_Steven would haunt all three of them if he died on a pikachu body pillow. So Steven is not dying on a pikachu body pillow. Or at all._

_James just wishes he could convince himself of the 'or at all' part.)_

“Where to?” Reina asks, her voice sounding tight. James watches her lips move, hears the words and doesn’t understand, and then suddenly the shock wears off and everything snaps back into a harsh and cutting focus.

He tells Reina the address as Cib takes Steven, lays him flat on the body pillow, and his voice is confident when he says _'so he's comfy cozy, dude'_ but his hands are shaking and _red, red_ , red. James can see Reina’s posture change as she presses the gas harder, knows from the steely glint in her eyes that she’s just as scared as they are, and knowing that Reina of all people isn’t sure makes this situation worse by a factor of about one billion. 

Cib seems to startle at the engine rev and looks back at the driver's seat, as if he just realized they took help from someone he doesn’t know. He’s just opened his mouth to speak when he’s interrupted by Reina doing the same.

"I'm Reina," she says, hard as steel, and looks at Cib for a moment. "James and Steven and I used to work together. If you're with Steven, that's all I need to know." That seems like enough for Cib. A lot of things are enough for Cib, James knows, and especially now he knows that Cib won’t be able to think about anything beyond the immediate question of Steven. Cib doesn't introduce himself before turning back, tightening his grip on Steven, and it feels like hours before anyone says anything.

"You worked with Steve?" Cib finally asks, his voice uncharacteristically soft, coherent, and the question isn’t for Reina. Silence again as the wheels spin in James’ head. He feels like he’s driving on snow, not getting anywhere as he tries to match that Steven to the Steven bleeding out in front of him.

James only nods, choked up enough that he can barely speak and focusing on other things, and suddenly they're thrown against the front seats as Reina slams the brake. Then everything moves too quickly--the car doors are open, people move, talk, yell, rush, and by the time things slow down a red-stained key has been left in the door of the lodge.

***

James almost wishes that Reina had kicked them out of the room. While he wants to help, he's also pretty sure that all he's able to do is stare and almost cry and, maybe if he tries hard, hand things to Reina with shaking hands. Cib has decided that his job is holding Steven's hand, and neither of them have the heart to move him away. Occasionally, she’ll hold out her hand, and James will hand her a tool or one of the drugs she’s setting up.

And, _God_ , does she know how to set up drugs, and do hundreds of other medical things that James would pay attention to if he could think of anything other than blood. At one point, she hands him a knife, maybe to hold or maybe to cut or maybe to do something entirely unrelated, and he just looks at it. He doesn’t know what else he can do. 

She finally tells him to leave to keep watch. There’s nothing to watch for, and she knows it, but Reina also knows _him_ , however fleeting his work at SourceFed was, and Reina knows that he needs a moment alone. 

He can't stop shaking. something's dripping off his face, and all he can think of is that he hasn't felt like this since SourceFed disbanded. Since he lost Steven for the first time. Well. Not just Steven, but Steven was there. Either way, James doesn't want to lose him again. 

Cib isn't as bloody as James is, but it's still a shock when he comes out of the kitchen spotted with red. James feels sick knowing whose it is, but Cib just helps him to stand and offers the smallest smile James has ever seen on his face. 

"You gotta shower, dude," he says, his voice a pale imitation of his usual canadien-californian drawl. "Don't want Steve to catch the bees."

He's trying. He's failing, but he's trying. 

"What bees?" James asks, trying to smile too, because that's the least he can do for Cib right now. Cib, who seems more shaken up even than he is, who caught him when he fell, who tried first to stop the bleeding. Who’s even more bloody than he is, but James doesn’t get a chance to point it out.

"Like the sweat bees, idiot, except they feed...on..." Cib trails off then, bites his lip, and for a long moment James doesn't know what to do. Then he taps his shoulder against Cib's, and Cib seems to snap out of it. "Go take a shower, James," he says, barely a whisper, and James goes because maybe Cib needs a moment to himself, too.

The shower is cold, but James is burning. Wilson and his wild band of assholes are still in town. James and Cib and Steven are sitting ducks. Reina, too. James has shit in the car. He could easily neutralize the threats. A simple operation. Just him versus four guys. He could do it.

But he won’t. Because he isn’t an idiot and Cib would probably end up accidentally blowing himself up. He would go, but he's not sure that Cib or Steven would ever forgive him if he did. He's not sure he wants them to, after what he let happen. 

He hears a pained sound from the other side of the cabin, weak but loud. The water is somehow even colder.

He doesn't look down or look at himself, just keeps scrubbing until everything must be gone because if he looks down and sees red swirling into the drain he just might throw up.

He gets out, gets dressed, pretends that he still can’t see the phantom blood on his hands. The cabin is quiet without the water running. Too quiet. James needs something to happen, something loud and something distracting. Cib’s standing in the hallway outside of the kitchen leaning against the closed door with his eyes almost glazed over. He apparently washed himself off, too, maybe in the master shower, and his hair wet enough that it’s plastered to his forehead. He still looks worse for wear, stares at the floor and doesn't move when James comes in. The usual bags under his eyes are ever-present, but somehow they make him look exhausted now, and he doesn't brush away the water that catches in his eyelashes. 

James slumps against the wall across from him and slides to the floor. The noise seems to jar Cib, who stares for a moment before shuffling over to join him. There’s a silence that feels kind of like a bubble, or the surface of a drop of water--if it’s broken, poked or prodded or even touched, everything will fall apart.

When Reina comes out, covered in blood herself, it breaks. 

"He can be moved to a real bed or something now," she says, and she sounds weirdly even. Horrifyingly calm, and it reminds James of Steven's work mode. Then she sighs, wilts, puts her head in shockingly clean hands, and the resemblance fades. There’s a border at her wrists where the gloves came off, and the difference in saturated red and the pale of her skin is terrifying. "He's going to be okay," she says, but it's muffled and tired and broken, and when she looks up there are tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. 

"There's a shower down the hall," James says, and at the same time Cib says "Thank you". She only smiles tearfully at both of them. 

"Thanks," she replies, sounding very small, and, despite her height, that's never been a word James associated with her before. "I'll take some of Suppy's clothes. They'll be big, but he won't mind. And if he does then he's a bitch."

***

Moving Steven to a real bed later that night isn’t fun. He's lighter than he should be, but still heavier than he looks, mostly dead weight, and he kind of almost bleeds again at any movement. Thank God Cib’s room is directly across the hall. James doesn’t know if anyone would be able to stomach any further.

“You can take my bed,” James says to Reina, because he knows that she isn’t leaving any time soon, and that’s how they all want it. She just nods, stands in the doorway staring at Steven. Cib is sitting on the floor next to Steven’s bed, holding Steven’s hand in his and staring at it blankly. 

James stands with her for a while. 

"How did you find him?" she asks, barely a whisper, and with all her makeup scrubbed away she looks just as tired as Cib had. As James probably does. 

"He found me," he says, and then suddenly he can't stop talking. "He looked so scared. He _looks_ so scared. I don't...I don't know him." And that's what breaks Reina, it must be, because she takes a sharp and shattered breath before pressing her forehead to James' shoulder.

He hesitantly puts an arm around her and takes a deep breath. "I'm getting to know him," he continues, because he really _can't stop talking_. "He vapes now. He looks like a loser, but, I mean, we all do. I'm pretty sure that all he owns is pink or blue and he somehow manages to make it work and, you know what? He finally stopped wearing those fucking Hawaiian shirts. He got a haircut, and I got his haircut, and--"

He can't stop talking but he has to, because if he talks any faster he won't even be able to think of the words before he says them. Because Reina's shoulders are beginning to shake and he's pretty sure that Cib has to be listening in by now because that's what Cib somehow does. He listens in and he somehow, _somehow_ makes things different. Better. 

Then again, anything could be better right now.

"What a bitch," Reina just says after a moment. James glances into the room and watches Steven's light, slight breathing for a moment. 

"What a bitch," he agrees.

Steven's head moves a little, and they all snap to attention. It hurts, the way it’s more like a loll than a stir. He had been heavier than he looked, but lighter than he should have been, and the pale pallor of his skin looks sickly. Looks dead. He hadn't realized that he'd held his breath for a moment until he lets it out, and Reina looks at him. Understands. 

"This is Cib," he says, making a vague gesture to him. "He was with Steven when they hired me." 

Cib only gives a slight nod before devoting his attention to Steven again, and Reina does the same.

There's a long silence. 

"It's been too long," Reina says, and she sounds choked, her voice wavering. Her lower lip wobbles, and she ducks her head. "God, I should've--been there, or found him, or done something besides disappear in _Japan_ for two years, and then Phil and Steve called and couldn't find him and I--" She cuts herself off, takes another breath. The next words are barely there, almost too much for both of them. "I was his partner. I should have made sure he was okay." 

James is quiet for a moment. 

"You did," he says eventually, and when she looks up he meets her eyes before looking again at Steven, hooked up to morphine and a blood bag and weak and pale but definitively alive. Reina smiles almost bitterly. 

"I guess I did, yeah," she says, before sighing and scrubbing at her face. "I'm....I'm going to get some rest." She doesn't leave, only walks further into the room before sitting on the bed beside Steven. She just stares for a moment before cupping his cheek checking for his pulse with her other hand, and pressing her forehead to his. She whispers something, either too quiet for James to make out or in a language that he doesn't understand, before getting up and leaving the room quickly with her head down.

James collapses on the couch later that night, too tired to think and for the moment too numb to feel, but Cib doesn't come in like James expected. Probably stayed with Steven all night. James would've, but he also doesn't want to disturb him in any way. Any small thing can make a difference in something like this, and he knows all too well. 

He comes out once, during the night, and from what James can see all he does is lean against the wall shaking. He’s not sure for how long, but he knows it’s a while, and he knows neither of them are getting any sleep tonight. 

***

Cib slogs his way into the kitchen in the morning and collapses, groaning, into a seat at the kitchen table. It’s taken him a while to come out of Steven’s room, and James is glad. He hadn’t been able to sleep, once he’d gotten a few hours and the numbness wore off, and for the first time all morning he was able to compose himself beyond the crushing fear that’s got his chest in a vice grip.

"James," he groans. "Jamesjamesjamesjames. Beautiful James, wonderful James. Make me food, my one and only."

Cib is using his tired voice, which is his regular voice, but with a heavier accent and more compliments. It’s usually cute. It’s usually adorable, but he can’t disconnect it from exactly why Cib is tired, and James can feel the weight on his shoulders gets a little heavier.

"Sleep first," James says, not looking up from his phone. "Then eat--"

"Fuck no," Cib says immediately, too forcefully for someone who shook the way that he did last night. "If I'm asleep and he wakes up..."

Of course.

James looks up, finally, and meets Cib's eyes, and he looks...just as heavy. Less delicate, but more obsessive as a result. Something passes between them for a moment, some mutual understanding, and Cib seems to relent the same time James does. 

_(For just one moment, tiny and fleeting and followed by limitless guilt, James is glad that if someone in their small group got shot, it was Steven. Cib is easier, somehow, to talk to and to reason with. Softer when a crisis hits, smoother around the edges when everything else is rough._

_The shame floods in the moment the thought passes, because how could he even for a second be glad about this? But the feeling stays a little bit, especially when Cib reaches out a hand that Steven would have kept retracted and taps James’ wrist in silent reassurance.)_

"Okay," James says after a moment. “Go sleep for five minutes. Five minutes and I'll make you whatever you want."

Cib nods and stands up and heads to the other room to the couch. He looks like a zombie. James can relate.

Reina comes in next, and she must have kicked Cib out of Steven's room to check on him because James knows she didn't sleep in there. She's _beaming_ , and that either means that she's a morning person or that there's good news. 

"He woke up," she says breathlessly, but stops James when he immediately moves for the door. "No, he's asleep again, it was just for a few seconds, but he woke up. That's--that's a good sign. He got through the first night. He's going to be okay." She keeps getting faster, and it's small news but it's good news and James is smiling for the first time since it happened, really smiling, and he practically picks her up in the hug he gives her. She laughs, and he'd forgotten how much he'd missed her, too. 

"Thank you," he whispers, feeling tears in his eyes, and she just smiles. 

"Well I couldn't just let him _die_ ," she says. "Even if he deserves it by now." And James laughs again, because he remembers Reina pulling Steven by the ear and forcing him to bend down, chasing him out of the back room, always the only one who could push him and the only one he'd push.

They both go quiet for a little, after the burst of excitement, and it's only when Reina taps him that James realizes he's spaced out, staring at the hallway to Steven's room. 

"Go _in_ there, you bitch," she says, still radiating relief, and so he does.

***

It’s the first time James has gotten close since the world stopped spinning. Steven is breathing, and that's all that he can focus on. He's breathing, breathing, in, out, in, out. He's breathing, and he isn't dead. He's breathing and he's going to be fine. 

He had trusted Reina, had before and will again, and the rational part of his brain knew that Steven was going to be okay. The rest of him, though, had been terrified, uneasy, unsettled, and looking at Steven with the knowledge that he’s here, that he’s not going anywhere the way that everyone else has, starts to make things just a little more bearable.

There's a chair set up by the bed and James sits down and it's just the two of them, Cib asleep on the couch. James knows that he should go and get him, but there isn't a point. Steven's still asleep and maybe James just wants to be alone with him. It isn't selfish, right? 

"I'd kill you if you died," James quietly says. He knows that Steven can't hear him, but maybe he can. "You fucking idiot."

Steven shifts and turns his head to face the wall, sighs a little, is breathing. James lets out a breath that he didn't know he was holding and just keeps watching. He'll get Cib in a minute, or he won’t and he’ll let him sleep. He’ll probably wake up soon, anyways--exhaustion is powerful but fear is even moreso, and if Cib’s subconscious wonders even for a moment if something is wrong he’ll be up and in the room before he’s even awake. For now, though, James is alone, and he thinks that right now he needs that. 

He has to remind himself to breathe, even if he shouldn’t be the one having trouble with it, and he keeps having to wipe tears out of his eyes. He hasn’t just felt, since--the shooting, and he doesn’t want to because it hurts but he thinks he finally has to. All the panic, all the stress, the physical exhaustion and the trainwreck that is his mental state, it all _hurts_ and none of it is stopping and all he can do is put his head in his arms on the bed and cry. 

It takes a long time. He’s not sure how long, exactly, but it’s long enough that there’s a hand rubbing circles on his back by the time he’s done, and long enough that his head hurts pretty badly when he’s done. He feels shaky, hasn’t taken a deep breath in, what, ten minutes at least, but he doesn’t feel quite as overwhelmed anymore, so maybe it’s a win. 

“He’ll be okay,” Cib says softly from behind him, and he doesn’t know if the sudden resolve is real or, if so, where it came from, but fucking _Christ_ he needs it right now. 

Cib eventually moves away, sits on the bed not quite in front of James and joins him in just watching. Watching like he did all of last night, and like he’ll probably do all of today.

Maybe he senses that James needs something to do, or maybe he’s just hungry, but he proves the probably wrong almost immediately. Cib always does, James finds himself noting, and it's a relief to see him back to some semblance of himself. Cib's unpredictability is normal, and they both need a little normal right now.

“You promised you’d make breakfast if I slept,” Cib says seriously, looking up, and James is able to manage half of a smile.


	8. With Love From: Cib (Harmony)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cib hasn't touched a guitar in years. Ain't gonna start now, that's for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like Cib. I like vague backstory. What the fuck is a guitar. -W

It’s three in the afternoon and James and Steve are out on a deal together, leaving Cib home alone. Again. It’s fine.

The guitar strings are too tight. Then they’re too loose. He sticks out his tongue and listens. There’s a sharp twang and a string pops off, smacking him in the face. Cutting him in the face. He absolutely doesn’t cry out and he absolutely doesn’t cry a little because he’s been stabbed before, a small cut shouldn’t do anything.

He’s bleeding. Kinda heavily. Old string, sharp string, not good string. He knows that now that he’s fucking bleeding into the bathroom sink. He has a towel to his cheek, and the sting of the remaining few tears mix with the blood. It stings. The string stings.

...he should write that down. Once he’s done bleeding and after he goes out to get a new string. Or six. They’re all busted. He’d get a new guitar, but...yeah, no, just new strings.

He winces as he pulls the towel away. The bleeding’s mostly stopped, but the towel’s red, and he’s going to have to wash that out later. Somehow. He’s not too good at the whole getting-rid-of-blood thing. Steven is. James is fucking amazing at it. It’s kinda funny.

-

The new strings work. They work perfectly and are in tune quicker than the old ones ever were. Then again, the old ones were also, like, six years old.

Cib’s face stings a little. Sting, string, bing, ding, sing. He can do something with that, maybe. He’s going to have a scar, maybe.

He grins, wincing as it pulls on the cut. It’ll be sweet.

He hums a little, mimics the notes on the guitar, and sticks his tongue out again. He really hopes that the deal goes on a lot longer because he has work to do and this work can’t happen with other people there. It just...won’t happen. Won’t be able to happen. He needs to be alone.

He picks out a note and grins, licks his lips, pulls over his computer, and gets to work.

-

He forgot to put the guitar away. He forgot to put the guitar away and the cut on his cheek still stings. It’s almost midnight and he and Steve are at the kitchen table splitting a pie that Steve supposedly didn’t steal from Target on the way home and Steve keeps staring at his cheek. It’s sharp. As sharp as the string and the string’s sting.

...he should write that down. In a bit, though, after Steve goes to his room for the night and after Cib’s sure that he’s as asleep as he’s going to get. Maybe it’s good that he forgot to put the guitar away.

“I’m gonna look like a pirate,” Cib grins. Steve wrinkles his nose, shakes his head. It’s cute.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Steve says. Cib shovels another forkful into his mouth, chews for a second, and opens it. Steve gags and turns away. Cib can see a small smile. Mission accomplished.

By the time Steve goes to bed, Cib’s forgotten what he was gonna write down. So he puts away the guitar and flinches at the cold wood. Guitars shouldn’t be cold. It’s...gross.

-

Cib is playing when he hears Steven walk by his closed door. He doesn’t pause, though. He’s on to something here.

He hums again and wrinkles his forehead, sticks out his tongue, when the notes don’t come to his fingers. The footsteps stopped outside, but he doesn’t care. This needs to come out. Needs to get out. Has to happen. This...this is going to be important, maybe, as soon as it’s done, maybe.

A string twangs sharply and he pauses and swears. The footsteps start back up again as soon as he retunes.

-

“Hey,” James says. Cib looks up from his computer and, oh, James is standing behind him, staring down at the screen.

Cib jumps and slams the screen down with a smile that he knows looks...not good. “Hey, dude, what’s fuckin’?”

“You write music?” James asks.

Cib blinks. “Absolutely not. What the fuck is music?”

The guitar is sitting on a stand in the corner of his room by the empty bookcase. Some of his old music books have found their ways there, though. He might have to fix that.

“Right,” James says, shaking his head slightly. “So, am I getting paid or…?”

Cib jumps, grins, winces at the pulling. He was right. It’s gonna be a scar. Not a big one, but he’ll still look like a pirate.

“Right!” he says. “I have no money! It’s your turn.”

“My turn to pay myself?”

Cib nods. James sighs and comes around to sit next to him on the couch. James is warm and Cib wants to be closer. Cool. Hot. Both. Yeah.

-

Cib leaves the door open. The boys aren’t there, won’t be for at least twenty more minutes, it’s just him and the guitar, and this idea is going to work.

He hums and the notes come easily this time. Time with the foot tapping, time with the hand slapping the strings, time with the footsteps coming through the living room and into the hallway. He closes his eyes but doesn’t stop as they stop outside of his room. This is important, it needs to happen.

Another humming joins his and he smiles despite himself. Stops, shakes his head with a sigh. He has to be focused. Music doesn’t come easily. Focus is key. He starts back up again and tunes the other humming into the background. Harmony, he idly thinks. Harmony is together. He hasn’t had together in a while. This song needs a harmony, but he hasn’t figured it out yet. Maybe it’s going to be a minor one. G-sharp, maybe.

“G-sharp,” he mutters, thinking, thinking. He can’t remember what G-sharp sounds like, but the humming pitches up to one and he wrinkles his face. No, not G-sharp. “C.”

The humming pitches down and, yeah, that’s right.

“Stay there,” Cib says, loud enough to drown out the guitar for a moment. He hears the notes miss and he sticks his tongue out and fixes it. He’s good at that, always has been. If there was a fuck up in the show, he fixed it easy.

The humming continues, matched with a tap on the floor and a slap on the strings and a slap on the doorframe. He smiles and amps up the volume.

-

“There’s a music festival in town,” Steven shrugs, and Cib can feel his heart stop. But Steve gets out of the car and Cib has to go with him, has to. His song needs the harmony.

It’s loud there. Really loud. It’s loud and beautiful. Colorful. Chaotic. Perfect.

Steven is tense almost immediately, though, and he looks...bad. Not bad, really, because Steven never looks bad. But he looks like he’s about to explode. So Cib talks. Because he can almost hear Bromby’s bass in the background, Dag’s drums. His guitar louder than everything, drowning everything out except for his singing. Steven could sing, maybe, and James could probably manage the drums.

He knows that Steven is staring at him. He’s probably thinking that Cib is a fucking loser for being in a typical high-school band. He’s probably not thinking that Cib was in one of the biggest bands in Canada at the time, that Cib was on his way to an American tour. He’s probably not thinking that Cib’s guitar had weed in it, once. He’s probably thinking that Cib is trying to keep himself under control but failing because he’s having a great time. He isn’t supposed to be having a great time. It’s loud, too loud for Steven, and this is for Steven, not for him. Melody isn’t anything without harmony, and harmony has to work right, and when harmony doesn’t work right, melody doesn’t work right.

Cib turns towards a familiar bass sound for a moment and when he turns back to Steve, he’s gone. Steven’s gone and Cib’s heart is suddenly going faster and faster. Things are speeding up and then he sees him standing straight and still in the middle of the crowd and drags him into an alley. He hates how Steve jumps, how he immediately relaxes as soon as they’re back together, how Cib can’t relax, not when the tempo is still too fast. Things are going to get too loud, too quick.

He opens his mouth but can’t say anything, but Steven says something for him as he puts Cib’s hand on his chest. The beat is strong and steady. Cib can’t relate.

“It’s, uh, it’s still beating,” Steven says, and Cib is still for a moment. “So is yours. And James’. You’re worried, it’s fine. But you can relax. And, uh, maybe you can leave me alone? Not, like, all the time. But I can take care of myself. It’s not like this is the first time or anything.”

Of course it isn’t Steven’s first time. He’s apparently some big-shot criminal stuck with Cib for now until he’s back on his feet. But Cib can still remember how everything slowed down. How all the sound in the world faded until Steve had woken up three days later with a smile. But Cib feels the beat, can almost feel it through his whole being. It’s strong, too strong. The beat is supposed to be strong, but it can’t overpower the melody.

But when Steven holds his hand, everything is softened for a moment until they’re moving again.

-

Cib hums but the notes don’t come. He’s alone, completely alone, and the room echoes too much. Bad acoustics. He would never sing in here.

“God, will you shut up?” the asshole groans. Cib just smirks at him and continues. He doesn’t know this song, but the fun in music is that you usually don’t. You just go with it.

You go with it and get tackled to the floor, your head hitting the hard concrete and spinning. The asshole’s shitty ratstache is in your face, and his fists come in even beats against your ribs. The fun of music is that, on occasion, you know exactly what you’re doing.

He rests.

-

James and Steven’s voices come through the door in a soft rumble, mixing together wonderfully. He might have to borrow them next time.

“Melody can have more than one harmony, you know,” he says. Andrew simply sighs and continues checking him over. “In fact, several harmonies can add to the musicality. You don’t listen to your music and hear the melody and a single harmony, do you?”

“What the fuck is music?” Andrew asks. He pokes Cib’s ribs, and Cib hisses.

-

The guitar is in Steve’s hands. Cib’s arms are around him, guiding his hands where they have to go. He knows that Steve knows how to play guitar. He knows that he shouldn’t be sitting up like this after only a week of not being kidnapped but he doesn’t care. He can hear how easily the notes come to Steven, how the melody almost seems clearer for him. He can hear how his own harmony is lower, softer. They switch and end up playing something that Cib doesn’t know. Something that Steven knows, and Cib lets him play, moves his arms down to his chest and rests his chin on Steve’s shoulder. Steven leans back into him and plays, and Cib listens.

-

James’ music's too loud, too chaotic. It’s perfect, and it fits him like the soft acoustic of Cib’s guitar fits Steven.

James doesn’t know guitar, but Cib’s gonna teach him. He’s gonna teach him and Steven’s gonna teach them both piano. As soon as James finishes moving in, they’re gonna do it.

For now, though, Cib sits on his bed and closes his eyes. His boys are packing up James’ apartment, Vinny the Perfect is lying next to Cib on the bed, his tail smacking against Cib’s thigh lightly as he plays. It’s not a good beat. It’s uneven and off-tempo and wrong. But that’s Cib’s favorite part about music. You can fuck up and still come out with something really cool.

He hums and the notes come easily, but they sound empty. No harmony this time, just melody. And sometimes having just the melody is fine. Acapella, but with a single person. A solo. Cib’s been doing solos for years now.

His computer is recording. He’ll add more later. This is something small, just for him. Maybe Vinny, too.

The scar on his face is faded, now. He still looks like a pirate and he loves it. Because now he’s a gay pirate that sells drugs and plays guitar and has two people to harmonize with as he plays.


End file.
